Prompt 136: Compose

For Sunday Scribblings 2 Prompt 136: Compose

Compose [kuh m-pohz]

1.to make or form by combining things, parts, or elements:

The occasional sound of an engine driving down the street permeated through the thin walls of the man’s flat. The man sat on the edge of his seat, unmoving, as the particles of dust danced merrily in the early rays of the morning sun. At first glance it seemed as if the man had just ascended from the depths of slumber. But upon closer inspection, one might speculate differently.

The man’s inky black hair was disheveled, a poisonous and erratic mop on top of his head which starkly contrasted with his pale and seemingly translucent skin. His eyes were bloodshot, the red veins struggling to engulf the whites that still remained. The haphazardly donned dressing gown was barely tied, showcasing the rumpled and stained white shirt the man insisted was the most comfortable staple of clothing he had ever owned.

No, the man had not been woken up from his rest. How could he have been woken up when he had not been asleep in the first place? The man had stayed up all night, wracking his brains, feeling as if he was slowly going insane in an attempt to compose. Compose. When he had accepted the offer to compose a musical piece for the opening of a friend’s institute, he had not thought much of it. How hard could it be? And once he was alone, in the quiet haven of his flat, the ramifications of his agreement occurred to him. The man panicked, his anxiety spiking up towards new levels as he scurried around his flat to find something, anything, to inspire him. He had spent the entire night, endlessly scouring compositions and musical theories to get some sort of idea.

And yet, here he is now, hours later, , pen poised artfully in his left hand, ready, yet unable to compose on the blank musical sheet in front of him. The rest of the flat hardly looked better. Empty coffee mugs lay strewn about, abandoned by their master once they ceased to contain the elixir of life. Compositions upon compositions of old musical masters lay littered upon almost every available surface, a mess of musical notes on already crowded coffee tables, aged Persian rugs and dusty love seats.

But the man just stared at the blank musical sheet, his bloodshot eyes boring into the paper, willing it to compose on it’s own or at least help him start. For how long he had stayed in this exact position he did not know, nor will he want to know as it will only serve the purpose to remind him of how little time he had left. The longer he stayed there, poised and ready to compose yet having nothing of substance come forth, the more chaotic his emotions became. The inner turmoil raging underneath his skin was bearable at first, the rising panic and anxious thoughts had helped him think. And yet, now, they had ceased their helpful tendencies, preferring to ridicule him with thoughts of failure and guilt, further poisoning him with their insipid barbs at his uselessness. And so time passed and the man did not notice, and the man never did notice, until the man was no more.

Author’s Note: I know my writing is not the best or the most thoughtful, and this is why I am doing the Sunday scribbles writing prompts. I want to improve my writing skills. If you guys have any feedback, please do not hesitate to leave me a comment below. I need constructive criticism!